Sally's Secrets
by Vayalin Whisper
Summary: Sally is much more than a person that calls Sherlock a freak.
1. The birth certificate

Do you know what it feels like to find out that your whole life has been a lie? I found it out when I was in my thirties, about to get married.

I had never been interested in my past, my ancestors. I knew the names of my grandparents, aunts and cousins but that was it. I didn't spent hours drawing family trees, I didn't do online searches and I didn't question my parents about their past. Not because I was afraid to find out anything, not because I didn't care, I simply wasn't interested. That might explain why the first time I saw my birth certificate was two and a half weeks before my planned marriage.

In order to obtain our marriage license, my fiance and I had started to collect all the necessary documents. We were only missing my birth certificate.

Because of her dementia, my mother hadn't been a big help and William and I soon found ourselves on the floor, looking through stashes of old documents.

He was the one who found it. „Sally dear, I think I have it!", he told me and handed me the sheet of paper. I took it and glanced over it.

It was only when I wanted to put it into a folder that I noticed it. Birthplace London. I read again. London. That wasn't possible. I had been born in Long Eaton, miles away from London. We had only moved away when I was 13 years old, after the racist comments had become unbearable.

„You alright, darling?" Will asked. I nodded absent-mindedly as I put the certificate into the folder. Thoughts were swirling in my head. Was this just a simple mistake? Everything else was right, after all, my name (Sally Donovan), my birthday (12th February), everything. Except my birthplace.

„Sally?" I needed time. I needed to think about this. I needed to talk to my mother.

„Will, how about we send those documents in tomorrow? We've still got time after all." I said, trying to smile.

„Are you not feeling well?" William asked, sincere concern in his voice.

„I am okay, just got a headache..." I said, still twisting my face in order to convince him that nothing was wrong at all.

„Okay... Hopefully it will get better." He kissed me. „See you tomorrow then!" William got up and walked out, leaving a confused me behind. Seconds after he left, I scrambled up. It was time to pay my mother a visit.


	2. Mother?

„Mother?" I entered the room. My mother had been living in this old people's home ever since I had moved out of the house. Her dementia had reached the point where she was unable to care for herself long ago.

I slowly moved though the tiny room. The walls were painted in a warm tone of yellow but they couldn't hide the fact that death was waiting around the corner. My mother was sitting in her old rocking chair, the only object she had been allowed to take from her old house. She looked so vulnerable, skinny, her eyes closed, her skin pale.

„Mother?" I asked again. „It's me, Sally." She opened her eyes. They were were of a watery blue, so different from my own brown eyes.

„Oh dear, I must have dozed off." she apologized. „But what are you doing here, Mary? I thought you were on vacation in France."

„No, mother, I am here." I whispered and bit my lip. „I found my birth certificate today. And... It says that my birthplace is London. But I was born in Long Eaton, right?"

„I don't know where you were born. You need to ask you mother about that, dear."

„But you are my mother!" I said.

„What are you talking about? I'm not even married!" she responded, sounding slightly indignant.

One of the things you learn when you are around a person with dementia is that you don't question what they say. It only causes more confusion for them. Maybe that was the reason why I simply sat down on the floor and ordered my thoughts. I didn't feel angry. I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel confused. I felt empty. My mother hadn't said that I was adopted but even if she had, it wouldn't mean much. But there was the thing with the birth certificate. And the fact that I looked nothing like my mother or anyone else in the family.

„_Mummy? Why do I have dark skin and curly hair?" I asked. My mother smiled. _

„_That is because of your father. He had skin as dark as chocolate and his hair was even curlier that yours!" I looked at her, surprised. _

„_Really?"_

„_Of course!"_

„_Where is daddy now? I want to meet him!" I continued to ask. My mother's expression changed, grew serious. There was sadness in her voice as she said:_

„_Darling, you daddy is gone." I looked at my mother with big eyes as she continued to tell me that my father became a star. „He watches over you as you sleep." she said._

_That was answer satisfied me and I continued to play with my teddy bear. _

As I grew older I had started to wonder what had happened to my father. Had he died? Or left my mother, like Sharon's father did? If so, did he think about me? Did he know that I existed? Had he married again? Did I have step-sisters or brothers? I never asked my mother any of those questions. Maybe I was scared to find out the truth. Maybe I didn't want to make her sad. Maybe I just forgot to ask her.

I stood up again. One last attempt, I told myself. „Am I adopted?" I asked her.

(At the back of my brain I registered that, instead of saying „Mother, am I adopted?" I had left away the „mother". Amazing how quickly we adapt to new ideas.)


	3. Memories

When my mother looked up at me, I knew that she was having one of her „clear" moments. Her eyes were bright and her voice was strong when she said „Yes." She paused. I didn't dare to breathe. „I am your grandmother." After I had gotten over the uninternional Star Wars reference and the initial shock, it took my brain a moment to process that piece of information. If she was my grandmother, she was the mother of either my mother or my father. Okay, I thought, so far so good.

„What about my parents?" I proceeded to ask, frearing the worst. The answer hit me hard, even though I had prepared myself for the possibility of it.

„They are dead". My grandmother's voice was nothing but a whisper. „They were so happy when they found out that Tanya was pregnant. But when you were born early, in London instead of Long Eaton and there were complications. Your mother gave her life for you but your dad, David, he couldn't understand. He wanted to be with your mother. He took his life."

I was speechless. All my life... had been a lie? I sat down and burried my head in my hands. I felt numb, helpless. „Why didn't you tell me earlier?" I screamed. The person who I had called mother for so many years looked shocked.

„Dear, don't shout. It is not good for your baby!" As quickly as it had come, the anger faded and all that was left was uncertainty. How could I be angry with a 78 year old woman with dementia? She had only wanted the best for me, I was sure of that. But still, how could she lie to me? I felt tears forming but I held them back with every single fibre of my body. I wouldn't cry. Why should I? My parents were dead, so what? I had never met them. My life had been a lie but was that a reason to be mad? Up to my 8th birthday, I had believed in Santa but finding out that he didn't exist, didn't change the fact that I got presents for Christmas. My grandmother was still my mother, in a way.

I stood up, I needed to go outside, get some fresh air and think about it all. I kissed my mother, my grandmother, on the cheek and left the room, taking my frustration, my helplessness, my uncertainty with me.

The old people's home had a big garden. In summer one could see many seniors walking around with their trolleys, but now in October, most prefer to stay inside. I sat down on a wooden bench, shivering in the cold. I was only wearing a light jacket and my ears were freezing off. Still, I decided to stay on the bench. Thoughts were swirling in by brain and I desperately tried to order them. No success. _Your mother gave her life for you,_ those words echoed in my mind. My mother ided giving birth to me. Great, now I could add guilt to all the emotions I was already experiencing.

Additionally there were all those questions... What had my parents been like? What did they look like? Would they have raised me differently? Would I bee a different person? Should I have ignored that „mistake" on the birthcertificate? Would I be happier not knowing? If I could decide again, whould I chose to know the truth?

I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind and stood up. It was time to look at some old photo albums.

When my mother moved into the old people's home I had sold most of her furniture and belongings. The rest was now rotting on my attic, along with the old love letters from James. That is another story though.

After at least half an hour of searching, I found an album between an old broken TV and a box of Christmas decorations. I pulled it out and immediately started to cough as the dust found its way into my lungs; the red cover was full of dust. 1950-1975 it said. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and opened it.

There she was, my grandmother, the man next to her probably my grandfather and the girl between unmistakably my mother. The same, smile, the same nose, the similarity was striking. I turned the page. My mother being held by my grandmother, taking her first steps, on her first day of school, her tenth birthday, Christmas, ice-skating, swimming, laughing into the camera, graduating school, on the funeral of my grandfather, then smiling again, getting married to a man I assumed to be my father, then a few pictures of her, pregnant with me. The last picture was one of my father, my mother smiling in the camera and fetus-me being there too. I turned the pages and was disappointed to discover that it was blank. As was the page after it and the page after it, all the way to the end of the album. I stood up and stretched my legs. A glance outside told me that it was at least 8 o'clock. Sighing I took the album and walked downstairs, into the living room. It would be an understatement to say that I was surprised when I found someone already sitting on the sofa.


End file.
